


Comes Around

by beetle



Category: Doctor Strange (2016), Doctor Strange (Comics), Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Different Framework Universe (Marvel), Alternate Universe - Future, Angst, Arguing, Canon Divergence - Post-Doctor Strange Epilogue, Confrontations, Declarations Of Love, Disregards or avoids much of MCU canon after epilogue, Gaudy Cowboys, Happy Ending, Honky-Tonk, Humor, Idiots in Love, Interdimensional Travel, Literally takes place in after travel from 616 to a different dimension, Love Confessions, M/M, Post-Daniel Drumm/Wong, Post-Doctor Strange (2016), Pre-Jonathan Pangborn/Wong, The Music of Pain, Wong Might be one of them, You'll have to read and find out
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-26
Updated: 2020-08-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:48:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26122978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: After a helluva long time . . . the man comes around.OR: Middle-aged men making—sort of—terrible decisions, fools of themselves,and. . . genuine efforts. Reconciliation and recrimination, clearing up of misunderstandings and forgiveness.Title from the Johnny Cash song. See tags and notes.
Relationships: Implied Past-Daniel Drumm/Wong, Jonathan Pangborn & Karl Mordo, Jonathan Pangborn/Wong, Karl Mordo & Wong, Karl Mordo/Stephen Strange, Stephen Strange & Wong
Comments: 9
Kudos: 44





	1. Two Sorcerers Walk Into a Honky-Tonk in Brooklyn

**Author's Note:**

> Future-ish fic, set post-Endgame timeframe. Vague spoilers, but disregards or avoids most MCU events that happened post-Doctor Strange epilogue. Written for a [prompt](https://doctorstrangekinkmeme.tumblr.com/post/161950796730/strordo-or-kaerdo-dialogue-prompt-youll?is_related_post=1) in the [Doctor Strange KinkMeme](https://doctorstrangekinkmeme.tumblr.com/) (prompt is also in end notes). Most of the chapters will be Mature and I’ll warn for the Explicit ones, as always.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A tender-foot sorcerer and his wingman walk into a honky-tonk in Brooklyn. . . .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No spoilers or smut, yet.

“Welp. This isn’t it. No- _PUH_ ,” the long, lean glass of milk mutters. He pops the concluding ‘P’ sound and continues obstinately blocking the doorway of the small anteroom leading into the completely _unironic_ honky-tonk. “Not it at _all_.”

He looks around with narrowed, ice-blue eyes set in a striking, but gaunt, tired face. Then he swears before shaking his head with total incredulity and finally moving forward and to the side by a few steps so that his companion can share in the absolute horror.

The place is a Throwback and not necessarily a good kind. Not necessarily _bad_ , either, but. . . .

Just then, the song blasting proud and grim out of the sound system passing as the in-house jukebox changes: from [some Johnny Cash jeremiad or other](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jiMXK9eDrMY), that’s always been pretty passable, and begins to play a song that’s so very much worse. Like, teeth-grindingly worse, destroy-the-Multiverse-just-to-make-it-end _worse_.

Couldn’t-we-listen-to- _It’s-a-Small-World_ -ten-times-straight-instead? . . . _worse_.

And instead of at least smelling like lard-fried Heaven, it smells of eighty different kinds of tasteful body-spray and some kind of eastern-fusion buffet.

Forget _bad_ , turns out this place is downright _evil_. Like one of those doorknob-turning velociraptors . . . that brought its circus clown bestie along for the slaughter.

“ _Nope_ ,” he reiterates, starting to back up with his gloved hands clenched in loose, shaking, but also slightly glowing fists. His companion doesn’t even glance back at him—not even when he’s halted in his retreat by an _even longer_ glass of milk. This one is six-goddamn-feet- _seven_ if is he’s an inch. He edges by with a distracted grin, and a _‘scuse me, friend_ in an Eastern-Bloc-meets-Stillwell-Avenue accent that’s thicker than week-old borsht.

He smells like he spent his day swimming in a vat of _Eau de Trying Too Hard To Smell Like I’m Not Trying At All._ And, really, it’s more of a taste than a smell. And more of a sensory invasion than a taste. And even more of an _entire new way of existence_ than it is any of those other things . . . and even for someone who isn’t wearing said way of existence.

Because, _of course_ , this is what would happen to complete today. Or any day, really, if one is Stephen Vincent Strange. _The Rodeo Tzar_ is the thing that makes _the most sense_ in the makes-no-sense journey that is _this_ journey. Not to mention Stephen’s entire _life_.

When Moscow-on-the-Hudson steps past the once again bottle-necked entryway and takes a long look around him, he heaves a sigh as if he’s found an oasis in the Mojave. Then he practically bounds into the main space, making for the fusion buffet. He’s unironically outfitted like he belongs where he’s landed; like he’s prepped for a dress-rehearsal of _Oklahoma!_ . . . all sparkles and tassels, checkered print and denim.

And a Stetson.

A _god_ damned, motherfucking _Stetson_. A _powder-blue_ one.

_Because of course._

And, also, _why not_? _Glasnost_ -Gary Cooper fits _right_ -the-hell in at this place! Easy-peasy, achy-knees-y!

The context, alone, is worth a huff and _half_ a head shake. Then a grimace. Then, perhaps, also worth fleeing into the pitiless Brooklyn night of _this_ dimension—the one with _Brooklynites_ in goddamn _cowpie couture_ —and back to the pitiless Brooklyn night of his _own_ dimension. Because he doesn’t _need_ this shit—not today or any day.

_Because_ . . . it’s _never_ too early to back out of a bad idea—or so he’s had _frequently_ pointed out to him, yet never really _believed_ until precisely now—

“Yeah. _No_ and _PUH_. NOPE. This . . . can’t be the place. It just can’t be. Close, but no horseshoes or hand-grenades—true story, hadda be there. Nice try, though,” he adds in his least reassuring _most reassuring_ -tone. After a patient, but drawn-out few seconds, the original glass of milk nervously clarifies to his companion: “Okay, I don’t mean the _entire dimension_ , but . . . this _establishment_ specifically. _Big nope_ on this being the actual and exact building. After everything . . . it just . . . it _can’t_ be here. My fate and future happiness _don’t_ get decided here. That’d be cruel and unusual and just an asshole kinda thing to do, even for an entire dimension. _Even my own dimension_ doesn’t hate me this much and it’s got more than a few reasons to hate me this much. I _just_ met this dimension—we’re still in the honeymoon-phase.”

_More_ patient silence and more anxious dwelling-in-that-patient-silence. Then: “C’mon, deal me square, here, Adele: you’re _sure_ the spell wasn’t bullshit? That scroll had a _lot_ of wear and water-damage, is all I’m saying. _And_ there was a lotta dead, giant-ass spider smeared across it, sooooo. . . .”

His companion finally gives him a long-suffering, but half-distracted side-eye.

Said companion is _also_ completely unironic in his own version of a cowboy get-up: from the fancy-stitched shit-kickers, to the iconic straight-leg blue jeans held up with a belt that’s more buckle than belt, a gray work shirt that’s perfectly distressed and topped with a bolo tie that’s way more beaten-silver bolo than tie.

With, of course, a six or seven hundred… _thousand_ -gallon, storm-gray Stetson to finish the look.

Basically, the kind of aesthetic a seventeen years old Stephen had been more than happy to leave behind when he had left Nebraska for freshman year of pre-med. But with all that almost thirty years behind him aside from the occasional sporadic-tragic visits . . . he feels more wearily nostalgic and discommoded— _waaaaaaaaay_ under the mortification-by-association, that is—than he does depressed and despairing.

Because . . . _goddamn Stetsons, for the Christing win_.

(And that’s the real dose of unreality: friends and associates of the _Strange_ family, out of Beatrice, had preferred a Resistol hat for style, substance, and _variety_.)

“Really,” Stephen adds, still nervous, but dry and snarky, now, “you’re wearing enough hat for three people, Wong. _Five_ , if they’re all _very_ comfortable with group intimacy in a public setting.”

His overall mood is far closer to jangled discommode and wariness, than depression and despair and pervasive sense of _futility_ . . . which is definitely an improvement. But Wong doesn’t seem to appreciate that overmuch.

“Listen, Strange, do _I_ second guess _you_ about if you’re sure that . . . whatever fun, old spell you’ve decided’ll work _great_ for destroying the Multiverse, will actually get that job done? Or do I just trust that if anyone can find _and_ effortlessly execute such a spell. . . .” his nattily costumed companion trails off mildly. _He_ , at least, smells of nothing other than the expected and reassuring scents of green tea and old paper.

Stephen rolls his eyes and has his mouth set to answer a huffy _no_ before he really thinks about the question. _Buuuuut_ . . . he actually _does_ think about it then deflates, hunching narrow-bony shoulders practically up to the mottling-pink of his ears and the silver glints of his hair, which is mostly hidden by a blue baseball cap.

“Too soon, Pharrell. _And_ uncalled for . . . _Jesus_. Interdimensional travel really makes you a moody bitch,” Stephen mumbles, absently hitching up indifferent, dad-style jeans that seem _determined_ to fall off his skinny ass. Not that, with his long, pristine-and-perfectly-new sports jersey, anyone would notice until his waistband was below his knees and halfway to his squeaky-clean, blizzard-white, no-name sneakers that wouldn’t have been cool in nineteen seventy-five, never mind now.

This look, too—that of _Divorced Dad on a Custody Weekend: The Shea Stadium-Edition_ —is a look he has never particularly cared for, least of all on himself.

“Your second guessing and incessant nagging makes me a moody bitch. Keep your self-doubt, self-pity, and anxiety where they originated and stop projecting.” Wong casts him another sidelong look that Stephen can’t see but he can feel. Kind of the way a lock feels the efforts of a master lockpicker. But at least Wong’s regard is as kind and commiserating is it is keen and uncompromising. It almost always is and, his own snarky tone aside, Stephen relaxes a little.

Wong being the usual amount of . . . _Wong-y_ is a good sign, and Stephen Strange takes what he can get when it comes to those.

Still. . . . “Throw me a bone here, J-Lo? Please? As a professional courtesy, one spell-slinger to another? We can’t use our magic to do any pinpointing this close or he’ll realize we’re here, and . . . then we start over and another long-ass, miserable-ass _nine years_ limps by, and _—” I don’t think I could live through_ even one more year _like this_ , Stephen bites back, his mouth firming and tightening to a thin, grim line.

Wong’s exasperated sigh is put-upon but genteel. “The spell did exactly what the scroll _said_ it would do if it was cast correctly. Which it _was_ —at least on my end of things.”

As Stephen glances around him yet again—this time, with definitely more despair than nostalgia—the low and selective lighting glints again off hair that is mostly hidden by the baseball cap, which looks fresh-off the assembly-line. It advertises a no doubt minor-league team in a grotesque font that isn’t worth the effort of deciphering.

Turning pinker, Stephen chuckles, then clears his throat. Then chuckles again. “Ah . . . huhhhh. You say that to imply. . . .”

“To _imply_ , nothing! I’m _telling you_ that if you provided the spell with what you were called on to provide, then we’re in the right dimension, the right time, the right planet, the right continent, the right city, and the right building. If this’d been a movie theater, we could’ve pinpointed the row and aisle of the seat.” Wong snorts and Stephen smiles a little, until Wong goes on pointedly. “The only potential variable in this whole thing is _your_ addition, and you know it.”

“Fuck you, if you think my goddamn _heart’s_ a goddamn _variable_ , Wong. My heart’s the surest, steadiest _goddamn_ thing in this Multiverse. At least in this case. And _you_ know _that_ ,” Stephen asserts, sounding both serene and casual, but also as uncompromising as magically reinforced steel.

This time, rather than a sidelong glance, Stephen’s long-time BEE-EFF-EFF smiles—probably—equally serene and steely, but likely more Cheshire Cat-y than _casual_. “My point, precisely. We both know _all_ these things. So, why are we standing around in a doorway kicking each other’s shins, when your steady-but-lost heart’s _in the same room with you at long last_?”

Then, he strides out of the anteroom and into the bar, proper—thumbs tucked into the loops of his straight-legs—before Stephen can muster an answer, and leaving him to follow or not as he wills.

Letting Wong and his ridiculous get-up— _costume_ , for Christ’s sake—including the ridiculous-ass _Stetson_ disappear into an unintimidating but serious throng of eerily similar hats is more than mildly tempting. . . .

But, since Wong’s the one with the insane amounts of archivist’s knowledge of rare and ancient spells— _including_ the spell that brought them to this dimension and Earth, and will hopefully take them home just as handily—Stephen’s reluctant to let him disappear from sight.

Bad enough he’s already got to search this whole awful Nebraska Throwback-style gin-joint for one-damn-sorcerer who might have already picked up on what was blowing in the weeds and done a runner. Doubling that manhunt hardly seems productive or wise.

Thus, after a huge and morose sigh, and another depressed and discommoded glance around him—the bar’s style _is_ honky-tonk, but in a too-persnickety/too-polished, gimmicky-yet-sincere sort of way . . . like how a person who only knows honky-tonks from old movies and nineties-era Brooks and Dunn videos might envision one—Stephen Strange decides he most certainly wills, and wades into a sea of bad fashion sense after his literal and figurative wingman. And in further pursuit of his entire heart, gone missing almost exactly one decade ago.

_Between the two of us, this is could work. This_ will _work_ , he reminds himself as the song on the jukebox switches from the usual sort of [shit-kicker ballad](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AM-b8P1yj9w) to [_another_ Throwback to Stephen’s past](https://youtu.be/yILr8KdTPsU) . . . this one more palatable by far than _Tammy_. _Now that we’re here, we . . ._ I _won’t let him walk away or my silence drive him away. Not ever again._

That bolstering thought wedged firmly in his flailing-frantic mind, and over the sound—barely—of his racing heartbeat and pulse, Stephen Strange also wades into the weird, meet-market fray of _And The Horse Ya Rode In On_ , on a busy Wednesday evening. Following his wingman and looking for his own lost heart.

TBC

I shit you not, "[the aforementioned Throwback to Stephen’s past](https://youtu.be/yILr8KdTPsU)” came up on my SHUFFLED [Comes Around – The Playlist](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLDZSuw00OZ3aLo7_PbyxeUFUVauIM-JaZ)—which I created before writing this story AND to which I don’t even remember adding said song—as I started typing the paragraph where it happens. The music selection in the honky-tonk wasn’t even going to be directly relevant before the second chapter. Which all proves this fic is haunted, and—IT’S STANDING RIGHT BEHIND YOU!!!!! AHHHHHHHH!!!!!

Also, Stephen’s beef with Tammy Wynette is his own, not mine.—beetle


	2. A Showdown at And The Horse Ya Rode In On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Might-could be a showdown at said honky-tonk. I reckon. See chapter notes and tags.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still MATURE. Direct SPOILERS for Doctor Strange (2016). Mentions of character death.

By the time Stephen’s caught up with a bright-eyed and grinning— _head-bobbing_ —Wong through the veritable sea of tasteless Brooklynites playing cowpoke, his mood has moved from high-strung to deflated once more. And soured.

But at least the aggressively cranked-up central air keeps the press of cowpokes from being a _total_ nightmare of cologne/body-spray and body-heat.

“What a clever and creative theme!” Wong says enthusiastically, raising his voice loud enough to be heard over Wild Cherry. It’s just enough to banish Stephen’s more than creeping, but deep nostalgia for the old days, when the worst parts of his days had been butting heads about patients with Nic West.

And the absolute _best_ parts of his days had been butting heads with Christine Palmer about damn-near everything else. . . .

Banish that nostalgia, yes, but not very far. And not _before_ starkly outlining it and engraving the old ache and sense of loss even deeper on Stephen’s tired-wired-tempered soul.

“‘Clever and creative’ . . . riiiight.” Stephen smiles, flat and far too uncharitably for him to be mistaken for even a little amused. He glances at the dancers and socializers crowding them. The costuming spectrum ranges from Loretta Lynn and Merle Haggard, to a few attempts at Johnny-and-June cool, but with a more subtle bent.

One wannabe-Cash—dancing with a leggy, redheaded Carter who must have a _talented,_ if not particularly imaginative plastic surgeon—looks _exactly_ like Stephen’s old dentist from way-back-when, pre-doctorates.

In fact, after a few seconds of staring, Stephen’s ten thousand-million percent sure that this _is_ Dr. Brian K. Hazikian . . . plus a dollar store-tan . . . and the redhead. Who looks nothing like the Linda Hazikian of Stephen’s home dimension.

Nawsir, _nothing_ like the gawky, frizzy-curled, _brunette_ Stephen clearly remembers.

_Different dimension, different history. Maybe this is how Linda looks here. Or maybe she never existed here. Maybe she does, and she and Brian just . . . never met._ Stephen sneers to himself. _Or maybe they_ did _meet and get married, and the redhead or someone like her is the reason_ Linda _isn’t here in her best Slutty Stevie Nicks-costume. Letting Ol’ Brian do his retiree bump-and-grind on her while she thinks of England._

 _Or maybe the Linda of this dimension traded-up without waiting for Bri-Guy to do her dirty. Could be_ anything _. Different dimension, different rules. Different everything._

 _Well . . . maybe not different_ everything _. . . ._

Feeling even more soured, now—Linda Hazikian had been funny and geeky, genuinely kind and a _damned_ good pediatric orthodontist . . . deserving of a better husband than the schmuck-o she’d landed—Stephen dismisses his old dentist and said dentist’s retirement life-crisis. He starts looking for a handsome face in a gorgeous and striking shade of bronzed butterscotch and soulful, dramatic eyes in a simmering-cool shade of espresso . . . espresso with a conservative splash of half-and-half, in certain lights.

Basically, what Stephen Strange—former-Master of the New York Sanctum of his home dimension—has been doing for a decade, now.

Since Dormammu had been cast out forever. Since Master Mordo had walked away from Kamar-Taj forever. Walked away from _Stephen_ forever. Due to . . . irreconcilable differences.

Never to be heard from again. Forever. . . .

Or, close to, for as miserable as the past ten years have been when there hadn’t been an impending catastrophe to take Stephen’s mind off said misery.

Shoulders slumped and hunched at the same time, he elbows Wong in the side and isn’t even accorded the usual deadpan disdain. Wong’s still too busy taking this sad spectacle of a social scene in and nodding to the music. And while it’s nice to know the man’s got [solid taste in music](https://youtu.be/OueyaMoUUt4)—mostly—it’s a little insulting that he’s not even paying Stephen his usual weary mentor-levels of attention. But before Stephen can quippily comment on that, something odd-as-God catches his eye.

_A poodle skirt and saddle shoes? The hell? I thought the theme of this place was cowpokes and_ country _, not Eisenhower Era and the Enchantment Under the Sea Dance._ Stephen shakes his head as he and Wong break free of the mingling crowd—Wong, with a neat and sweet, perfectly-timed little step and half-jive.

He, for one, seems enthralled and thrilled with _all of this_ to the point of disturbing glee. Stephen would be frightened if he didn’t have a plateful of his own problems. At this moment, Wong’s obvious spiral into delusional psychosis is simply bemusing and perplexing, but not yet worrisome.

Not _yet_.

“I can’t believe you’re seriously digging this place, traitor!” he nonetheless accuses, caught between a smirk and a grimace, eyebrows wiggling without much in the way of inflection, torn as they are between mocking waggles, scowls, and exasperated furrowing.

After Etta puts her _foot_ in _that note_ —it’ll _never_ not be so striking and soulful that everyone, even _Stephen Strange_ , pauses to appreciate and nod—Wong places his hands on his hips and gives his head an approving shake. Like a man who’s just realized his dream-coming-true had never been a dream at all, but always solid, touchable reality. His smile is that of someone whose ducks have suddenly lined-up in a neat and orderly row.

Unbelievable.

At least, in the sense that Stephen sure _hopes_ he, himself, has gone temporarily mad and will sane-up _soon_ . . . be cogent and grounded in _reality_ -reality, where Wong doesn’t dress like a rhinestone cowboy, minus the rhinestones. And the cow.

“Other-dimension _sucks ass_. Except for _parts_ of the soundtrack,” he mutters and concedes, and Wong snorts, clapping his shoulder.

“This dimension is _delightful_ , you surly grinch. Or maybe it’s just _this bar_. Though, even if it _is_ just this bar . . . the dimension’s off to a fine start,” Wong graciously decides.

“Are you _fucking with me_ , right now?” Stephen sounds far more plaintive and waspish than he does stern and snarky. And suspicious. “Is this— _all of this_ —” the hand he waves around to indicate _all of this_ is shaking more and harder than it has over the past few years. “Is this payback for that time I . . . _accidentally and briefly_ turned your iPod into a two-headed salamander . . . while you were listening to it?”

Wong’s brows lift and his gaze is distant and inscrutable. “Do _you_ think this should be payback for a brief accident involving my iPod?”

Stephen pinches the bridge of his nose, then makes for the sneeze-guarded buffet not too far ahead of them—Wong keeps up with him easily, once more agog and charmed by all this gentrified hick-shtick—one of several set-ups around the edges of the massive central space. Much like the other tables, it seems to have been mostly abandoned for the dance floor. Not even the Wodka Warmint is in sight.

“Do you always have to answer simple questions with other, more annoying questions?”

An attitude-y blink and an infinitesimally small, but hugely smug smirk, neither of which Stephen can see but he can _feel_. “Who wants to know?”

Stephen groans and casts his eyes on the buffet-spread just to distract himself from this losing battle and his own damn nerves, and regroup before what’s likely to be the most important showdown of his existence. But the fusion-fare . . . actually looks more than a little tempting. He starts eyeing the baba ghanoush and the mini cheese wontons with real consideration.

It’s been a couple days since he’s done more than swill coffee on the fly or magically steal unhealthy shit from random vending machines that’ve crossed his varied path. “Remind me again why you’re leading this expedition, _Jefe_? Because I’m starting to have serious questions and concerns,” he grumbles, reaching for a nice, greasy handful of those wontons—because, _fuck_ a _plate_.

This isn’t tea and crumpets with Queen Meghan, after all.

“And _I_ have serious questions and concerns about the state of your sanity _and_ of your arteries,” Wong replies absently, taking in their immediate vicinity with a slight frown. His gaze ticks from twill to checked fabric, string tie to neckerchief, fringe skirt to—

“Huh. And _wow_ ,” Stephen grudgingly adds, his hovering hand drifting away from the wontons after he follows Wong’s gaze to a tall, athletic-sturdy looking guy standing with his back to them, at other side of the laden buffet table. He’s dressed in full gaucho-regalia, from the top of a _choice_ cream-colored, probably handmade _campero_ with an orange-yellow-red band, a brown-orange-yellow-red poncho, gray _bambachas_ , and down to well-shined _corrugadas_ that look more like authenticity and cultural familiarity than an attempt to take home the Best Costume Prize. “Gotta respect the dedication and attention to cultural deets. Props.”

But Wong’s really _staring_ at the guy; harder and for longer than even the _best_ Best Costume Contender could warrant. Any harder and for any longer, and the poor guy’ll burst into flames.

“Is that . . . no. Can’t be. And yet. . . .” the other sorcerer begins then trails off—unusual from him. Enough so that Stephen’s brows shoot up and he looks at the guy again. He seems vaguely familiar even just from the back, but that doesn’t mean much. Stephen’s met a lot of people in New York City, alone, and probably most of _them_ have doppelgangers in _Doppelgang-Land New York City_.

When Wong suddenly moves, stalking around the buffet with eerie focus and intensity, Stephen doesn’t hesitate to follow him, his gloved hands ready to cast and his mind _one_ split-thought away from summoning the Cloak—which _had not_ liked being told to wait out of sight in the blind recess of a nearby building.

(He can literally _feel_ that big, pouty _baby_ of a relic sulking and feeling sorry for itself, while simultaneously eager to mix shit up or stir it up from scratch. Really, it’s frightening that the one relationship in Stephen Strange’s life where _he’s_ the sensible and deliberating one . . . is the one with loudly upholstered, conditionally murderous, magical outerwear.)

“Jon,” Wong calls, firm and certain, once around the table and but steps away from the gaucho.

Instantly, the gaucho—who’d been talking to a tiny, timid-looking server in kitschy-gimmicky cowhand-wear—freezes for a few moments . . . then relaxes slightly, finishing whatever he’d been saying. The server’s gaze ticks to Wong then Stephen, then back to the gaucho, and she nods once, hurrying off.

Wong has frozen several feet behind the man, who takes a deep, steadying breath before starting to turn. Stephen stops at Wong’s side, ready to throw-the-fuck- _down_. Anyone looking to get a Wong-beatdown’s just going to have to settle for a Strange-one instead . . . _lo-si_ -fucking- _ento_.

But Mr. Gaucho’s shoulders square as he turns, and the rest of him seems to relax more, not less, as he sees Wong.

“ _Wow_ ,” is all he says, seemingly stunned and breathless. He doesn’t even notice Stephen. His dark eyes land on Wong, do about six once-overs—or one six-over—before settling nervously, but hungrily and unwaveringly on Wong’s eyes. The smile that spreads across the gaucho’s weathered, copper-tone face is slow and wide: unadulterated joy. It’s surrounded by a semi-patchy beard that’s more salt than pepper, much like Stephen’s hair.

“Hi, Alan,” Jonathan Pangborn says, soft and kind of breathless. He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing a few times before he chuckles, shoves his work-rough hands in the pockets of his _bambachas_ , and finally looks down. Blushing.

“You’re . . . _alive_. . . .” Wong says, sounding more flummoxed than _Stephen Strange_ has ever heard. But before he can even begin to process that and the fact that, yeah, Pangborn’s alive, something else finishes metabolizing.

“Wuh—your first name is _Alan_?” he demands, wide, disbelieving eyes scanning Wong as if he’s been body-snatched. Meanwhile Wong’s practically gaping at Pangborn as if _he’s_ seeing a specter. Which is understandable since . . . well, everyone in the home dimension who’d known about Master Mordo’s Murderous Purge-Spree had assumed that Pangborn was one of the first to get taken out. He’d disappeared so completely; it’d made perfect sense.

But not for the first time, truth turns out to be stranger than hypothesis, as that were.

Or this is a doppelganger-Pangborn that knows doppelganger-Wong. And _fairly_ well, Stephen would guess.

“Yeah, uh . . . I’m alive and . . . it’s a long, weird story. Kinda attached to why _you two’re_ here, I’m guessing.” Now, Pangborn’s dark, old soul-eyes tick to Stephen just long enough for an acknowledging and respectful nod. “How’s it hangin’, Doc?”

“Low and a little to the left, as always,” Stephen replies, putting a bit of yesteryear twang on it. “You’re looking well, for a man who’s been presumed dead in another dimension for the past decade.”

Pangborn shrugs and tenders a charming smile that falters a little as Wong crosses his arms and purses his lips in a way that’d be _damned_ mulish in anyone else. But since this is . . . _Alan Wong_ , Stephen doesn’t know _what_ to call that posture. “I do my best. Yoga and pilates work wonders, if ya can stick with ‘em.”

“Good to know.” Stephen glances at a still flustered Wong. “Okay, this is obviously unexpected. _So_ obviously unexpected, I feel the need to point that fact out to all present _despite_ it being glaringly, _obviously_ unexpected.”

“Right there with you, Stephen,” Wong says tersely, then shakes his head while frowning deeply. He doesn’t seem especially tense . . . but he _does_ seem more than a bit walled-off and defensive. “How and _why_ are you here, Jon? Have you been here all this time without sending word back? Why?”

“That tale’s . . . long and only half-mine to tell,” Pangborn says uncomfortably, his gaze ticking briefly to Stephen once more. Then he sighs as he gives Wong another long, assessing look. “How’s, uh . . . Kamar-Taj? And, ah . . . and Daniel?”

“The former is thriving and stronger than ever. The latter, unlike you, is still dead.” Wong’s voice is gruffer and stiffer than usual and Pangborn winces, his shoulders drawing up before he slowly squares them again, only in time for Wong’s soft, somewhat pained: “Regrettably.”

Along with his shoulders re-hunching, half the blood drains from Pangborn’s face near-instantly. “Ah, shit. I . . . I hadn’t heard that he’d . . . well. I’m sorry. For your loss. I know you and he were. . . .”

“We were foremost guardians of Kamar-Taj and of the Sanctums, whatever else we were, besides.” Wong’s arms are crossed tight, indeed, and his hands hidden. He sounds and looks way more formidable and forbidding—way _Wong-ier_ than usual. Terse and stoic and uncompromising, but not in the _good_ way. “We knew and believed in our duty and our purpose. _Daniel_ _died_ believing in and knowing it. _Fulfilling_ it. That’s . . . enough.”

Now, Pangborn’s frowning, too, and his gaze is very bright and direct. Piercing. “ _Is_ it?”

“Since there’re no alternatives on offer . . . yes,” Wong says, stony and flat, _his_ brow furrowing in a way that still puts the fear of library fines and maiming into Stephen. But Pangborn must be more than half-daredevil, because he’s smiling fondly and affectionately, his gaze gone gentle and wistful, his eye contact not wavering.

More like . . . smoldering . . . just a little.

“Whatever you say, Alan. As always,” he replies, warm and more than a little flirtatious. Stephen can only shake his head and be once again floored.

“Dude, seriously, though? _Alan_? And is your middle name _Kevin_?” he whispers loudly. Pangborn snorts a laugh and Wong—

Wong . . . _blushes_.

Deeply.

Pangborn’s smile turns a little lazy, a little wry, as he gives Wong a few more of those thirsty once-overs. But he addresses himself to Stephen. “ _He’s_ been waiting for you for weeks, now, Doc—I was beginning to think you’d never actually show. But . . . he’s always sayin’ how determined and impossible you were. Heh, _are_. Anyway, Marisa went to let him know you’re here. She’ll probably be back in a little bit to—heeeey, speak of el dee-ablo.”

When Stephen follows Pangborn’s glance over his shoulder, the Lil’est Cowhand from Northeast of the Rio Grande is indeed making her way toward them. She aims a small summoning nod at Stephen and immediately turns back the way she’d come.

“I guess that’s paging for Doctor Strange . . . Doctor Howard . . . Doctor Strange. Uhhhh. . . .” Stephen begins, torn between wanting to run after her and into his last chance at happiness and wholeness . . . and wanting to stay right where he is. Just in case Pangborn tries something stupid. Not that he’s doing so _now_ . . . there’s not even a mystical flutter from his direction. But, still, just in case Wong needs back up later. Or sooner than that. . . .

_Certainly,_ not because Stephen’s afraid of rejection, whether he fucks everything up again or doesn’t.

Certainly not.

But a quick assessment of Wong—who now merely seems shocked and far less displeased than he had a minute ago—and then an all-but drooling Pangborn is enough for Stephen to understand his back up isn’t needed or wanted, here.

He has no reasons or duties—or excuses—to not go tear-assing after his heart, just as he’s always wanted to and meant to.

“You, ah . . . you look . . . _really_ good, Alan. Like . . . fucking _amazing_. I mean, y’know . . . _still_. You look amazing _still_. Better than ever,” Pangborn keeps amending, just short of an anxious, winded stammer. His Adam’s apple is going haywire.

Stephen smirks and stifles a snicker. Wong darts a glance at him, clears his throat, and unsuccessfully fights another blush. “I owe it all to clean living, Jon,” he claims in Pangborn’s direction, but definitely avoiding the bright, unhidden thirst in the man’s regard.

“Well. That’s kind of a pity. But I’ll bet you, ah, dirty up _real_ nice, though,” Pangborn drawls, casually—and with barely a stammer.

“Of course, I do,” Wong agrees immediately, haughtily, and with a thin veneer of _forbidding_ that covers an almost endless chasm of dry, often surprising humor. “How else would I have learned to clean up so deceptively and well, if not _lots_ of practice?”

Pangborn laughs, loud and hard, until it subsides in a grin that’s as shy as it is yearning. Wong returns the grin with a still somewhat poleaxed, but increasingly pleased and wondering smile—and no mistaking it. Especially since his crossed arms are no longer defensive, so much as. . . .

Challenging, and . . . provocative. . . .

_Ohhhh . . . kie-doke. Thirsty THOTs be like. . . ._ Stephen smirks again, while also being well-aware of the irony of himself holding such an opinion. But it’s not like Pangborn doesn’t have _every_ right to be salivating over Dat Ass That Got Away. As well as damned good taste for salivating over the Ass-in-question.

_Well, at least_ Alan _—Jesus H. God, why even is that first name a reality in_ any _dimension that doesn’t feature Dormammu as god-hole, in Chief?—has this situation in hand. Or he’s gonna, and damn-soon from the look of things. Get you some, Wong, and mazel tov!_

Shaking his head and chuckling, and feeling unexpectedly _un_ -soured, he hurries after the quickly vanishing Marisa. Back into the cowpoke-crowd as the song changes smoothly to [something else](https://youtu.be/1vrEljMfXYo) and, hopefully, after the crowd, _back to the heart of him_ , which has been lost for longer than he’d have ever thought he could survive without it.

TBC

**Author's Note:**

>  **[PROMPT] :**  
>   
> [Strordo (or Kaerdo) dialogue prompt: “You'll always be mine. You couldn’t pretend to not be mine if you tried.”](https://doctorstrangekinkmeme.tumblr.com/post/161950796730/strordo-or-kaerdo-dialogue-prompt-youll?is_related_post=1)  
>   
>   
>   
>  **Thanks :**  
>   
> To anyone giving this a read (and hopefully a comment and/or kudo :-).  
>   
>   
>   
>  **Resources & References for this fic:**  
>   
> Gauchoclothes.com  
> Google  
> IMDB  
> Marvel.fandom.com  
> Marvelcinematicuniverse.fandom.com  
> Stetson.com  
> Thewesterncompany.com  
> Wikipedia  
>   
>   
>   
>  **Powered by :**  
>   
> [Comes Around - The Playlist](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLDZSuw00OZ3aLo7_PbyxeUFUVauIM-JaZ)  
>   
>   
>   
> [TUMBLES with the bug](http://beetle-ships-it-all.tumblr.com)! And [PILLOWFORTS with the bug, too](https://www.pillowfort.io/beetle-comma-the)!


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